


Ten Thousand People, Maybe More

by sasha_b



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Gen, Gratuitous naked Lancelot, Inner Dialogue, Magic, Personal Canon, Personal Growth, Post-Season/Series 01, Self-Acceptance, possible Nimue sighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lancelot tries to heal, while the past and the future interrupts.
Relationships: Pym & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	Ten Thousand People, Maybe More

**Author's Note:**

> Could be a follow up to my other pieces in this 'verse, but also stands on its own as a post series one addendum.
> 
> Title from The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkle.

Rolling over, the monk almost gores himself with his own sword.

Now that he’s been given most of his things back (they grudgingly realize he needs his weapons if he’s to hunt and assist the hundreds of fae with basic living and protection) he doesn’t let them out of his sight. Even when keeping them under his blanket on his cot almost causes him to slice his own arm off.

The sword is honed and cared for, and despite it being heavier and harder to lug around as he’s healing, he feels a sense of _normalcy_ and familiarity carrying it. He hates that. Hates the fact he can’t let things try and change (he chose it, after all) – he swallows and struggles slowly off his cot, body exhausted and mind whirling still. It's a challenge to shut off his birth given abilities; being around this many people that are fae is deafening sometimes, and sometimes it makes him sick and more exhausted than he's ever been in his life.

His hair’s grown out, the bit of the tonsure left only slightly uneven where the scar still lays against his scalp, the black curls thicker than he remembered they’d been. It feels strange, and he finds himself scrubbing at his head more often than not.

“You should wash it,” Percival tells him matter of factly one morning. “You look like a bird has taken hold of you. Even uglier than before.”

He snorts, but as he’s leaving the healer’s tent (Pym’s busy with some other person that’s got the worst rash he’s ever seen), he catches sight of himself in the piece of broken, ancient electrum she uses as a mirror, and stops.

He does look like a bird has gotten him. And his face is … darker, since the sun has touched it without his cowl covering his skin. He blinks and stares at his reflection. It’s been a long time since he’s paid attention to anything about himself – ego and vanity are vices he’s tried to ignore. But he’s wondered about his birthmarks; other than seeing them in rippling water or a pane of glass, he hasn’t looked.

He raises a hand and touches the one under his right eye. They seem brighter, or more detailed than he thought they were – an involuntary shiver takes his spine and he bites the inside of his cheek. His cloak and heavier gear are back in the tent he shares with Percival, and he suddenly feels very exposed without them and people are beginning to enter the tent, various maladies common in large groups of people.

“Lan- monk,” he hears Pym’s voice. He turns, breathing a bit less tight when his visage disappears. “Here’s your salve. For your back,” she says, stepping a bit more closely to him so not everyone is privy to the conversation. She smiles; it’s tight but he knows she’s tired and it’s not a target at him. He hopes. He’s beginning to like her.

That’s dangerous. He can’t, shouldn’t have friends. What in God’s almighty name is a friend? Someone you hurt when you need to? Someone that turns on you at the most inopportune time? Why haven’t they all tried to have him killed already? He’s not counting Arthur, who’s made his feelings known multiple times. The monk rolls his eyes inwardly at that. Gawain had been right about one thing – he _can_ fight. The man Arthur holds no fear over him.

The sun is out, although he knows the chill is coming. Another shiver takes his spine, and he rubs at his hair without thinking about it. Pym shakes her head and presses the glass jar of medicine into his hand. “Take this. And wash. You smell like a midden heap and long dead fish. And trust me, I’d know.”

He raises an eyebrow, his mouth curling a fraction at the corner. “There’s a hot springs near here,” she continues, turning and yelling _I’ll be right there_ at a couple in the back of the tent. “Get Squirrel to show you. Or I’m sure you can find it yourself,” she frowns. “What with your tracking skill and all,” she allows the words to die off. Shrugging, she closes his fingers over the jar and shoves him toward the flap of the tent. “Go on.”

He nods his thanks at her and stiffly makes his way toward his tent and almost walks into the Viking woman, mulling over thoughts so deep he doesn’t see her.

“Monk.”

Her voice is deep and melodic and he finds himself fascinated by her. Anyone as strong as she is that is as proud as she to be an exile of the Ice King is a worthy adversary – or possible ally. Something he’s sure again is not a good idea for him to have. But if he’s going to stay with this ragtag bunch, it’s something he’s afraid he’s going to need.

He doesn’t remember what it’s like to not be surrounded by people – but completely alone in the process.

“Lady,” he nods and steps around her. She puts a hand out, and he cocks his head, aware suddenly of how badly he does smell, and again attempts to pass her. She steps with him.

The sun is bright in his face and the noises of the camp come and go, but he focuses on her, looking up when it’s obvious she won’t get out of his way. He doesn’t speak, but waits. She examines his face for a long minute; uncomfortable enough after quiet seconds he finds he wants to shift. He doesn’t move, though, and at last she slides her eyes to the sword at his waist.

“That’s an impressive weapon.”

He shrugs. “I’ve had it a long time.”

“I’m surprised Arthur let them give it back to you.” She touches the pommel briefly, and then rests her hands on her hips. Her facial jewelry sparkles and he opens his mouth to ask her about it, but he shuts it when she speaks again.

“I wouldn’t have. Could have had a great piece of plunder for my collection. But then again, men are stupid.”

He smiles and so does she, and he sketches a small bow at her. “Yes. One of the reasons I’ve had this sword for so long.”

She laughs and steps aside. “You’re interesting, fae blood.”

His smile drops. “Excuse me, lady.”

She nods at him, but he can feel her gaze on his back; a skill that has never failed him. He rushes away, though, not wanting to notice her this time.

*

He doesn’t need Percival’s help to find the small area of springs that are clustered a league or so west of their camp. He finds the closer he gets to them, the more his shoulders lower from having climbed around his ears after speaking to Guinevere. She is intriguing – and also makes him nervous. His whole life makes him nervous now, and that was his choice.

It’s only been some months, but some days he wakes up and feels like a 100 year old man, his mind exhausted and his faith shattered still and his decisions awkward and wrong and God, won’t someone give him some answers?

He stops at the edge of the rocky formations that make up the small springs, and closes his eyes.

After a few moments he opens them. No one is near, save a few animals, and definitely no fae. No humans, either, although he’d hear them before he’d smell them. Idiots.

And then he feels horrible washing guilt that twists his gut and makes his back twinge; his brothers in the Paladins had been human, and they weren’t –

He stops and really examines that thought.

And then shoves it away, for he’s not quite ready to go that deep, and right now, all he wants is a moment alone to rinse his body and hair and to _not think_. Just for a moment. To just be a man, and to not worry over what part is God and Father Carden’s creation, and what part is fae, and what part is just him. Lancelot. That name he’s not even thought in over a decade.

He strips out of his clothing quickly, piling everything neatly with his boots and weapons, including the salve that Pym had given him. He takes a few steps to the first hot pool, the skin of his feet taking on the green cast of the ground as he does. He doesn’t stop to examine them; that part of his nature has been happening more and more frequently the longer he’s been with Percival and the others. It’s disturbing but he’s not going to fret about it. Not until he’s alone, at night, and can test it out where no one, including God and all his angels, can judge the monk on his true soul.

Not until he’s ready to face punishment for that, and for his abandonment of his faith. No matter that, at the time of his leaving, he’d felt saving the boy and in doing so, the rest of them, was a more righteous cause than the one he’d been supporting for at least ten years.

He sinks into the water quickly, and the shiver and sigh that hits him almost undoes him.

Bathing for long periods of time, enjoying oneself, was not a thing he’d done. It was vanity and ego and he didn’t participate in those vices. He’d washed and taken care of his bodily needs, but this? This was something –

A noise escapes him. A mixture of a sob and a laugh and his nose runs and his eyes weep real tears and the pain he’s been carrying his entire life seems to bleed out of him, the hot water absorbing it and he sinks to his chin and allows his muscles to unclench for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. Very childish of him, but he can’t help it, and as the sun moves through the trees and he soaks, he finds his thoughts wandering – his guilt and then his anger and sadness ricocheting, knocking against his brain enough to make his head throb.

Dappled twilight.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been in the water. His back has stopped aching, but his head still hurts like someone has tightened a vice around it. Brother Salt comes to mind – pain and blood and sweat and tears and he sinks below the warm water, _forget forget forget_ –

He scrubs at his hair, surfacing slowly. Maybe now he doesn’t smell like a dead fish or a midden heap.

He rises and steps out of the pool, steam swirling around him, the evening fauna beginning to make sound, and water streams down his pocked and scarred skin.

A gasp, and he turns in shock, shame and rage filling his bright eyes, his birthmarks standing out in contrast to his skin. How in the world could someone have come upon him without him knowing? Especially another fae?

He stands still, wanting to reach for his weapons, his nakedness one thing he’s not embarrassed by. It barely registers, actually. He’s not been around many women in any context save one of death and destruction, and being in his skin doesn’t affect him – although he knows Pym is gasping due to his scarring and the state of him. He lowers his grasping hands (the sword is still there, with his clothing), and continues to step out of the pool. She waves a hand in front of her face, her skin scarlet, her hands filled with his tunic before he can reach it.

“Not that I’ve not seen you, but my gods, man,” she says finally. “Put this on.”

He walks to her, taking the tunic from her.

“Wait,” she says as she’s still trying to hide her eyes from his body. “Turn around. I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

He obeys; having a feeling he knows what she wants. Why she’s bothering, though, he’s not sure. He deserves the scars; he gave them to himself. They serve a purpose, a reminder, a physical place that he can go to when he finds he’s forgetting what he’s done.

But then again, confusion bounces back and forth, his headache sprouting anew – he’d been saved in order to do what he’d done. The fae are not his brothers, no matter what Gawain and Percival had said.

He deserves none.

He makes a sound low in his throat as Pym puts the salve on his scars, his anger and bewilderment growing. He aches. Everything hurts. Why is he being punished for what he’d been taught to do? Why is Arthur, why are all of them treating him like a damn outcast or a freak when he’d saved one of their children and

“Lancelot,” Pym’s voice cuts through the gloom of his rage, and it dissipates as suddenly as it has risen. “You’re done.” She steps away from him quickly as he pulls the tunic over his head, covering his destroyed back and his buttocks, taking up his trews and pulling them on as well. The night is almost truly there, and as he straps his sword belt and weapons on and slides his boots on, he pauses.

He’s so angry.

So pained, so alone, so abandoned! Why had they abandoned him? Why – had she – her own father had left her to die.

He blinks.

His face aches.

She rolls over wet, sharp rocks. Where is the sword? Where is her father?

Lancelot drops to his knees suddenly, touching the ground, even as Pym rushes to him, _are you hurt, what’s happening?_ barely reaching his ears. He is cloakless, his now clean hair lying wet against his cheeks, dripping down into his collar. He shushes her, even as she humphs an annoyed grunt –

His fingers tremble as his hands clench at invisible wounds; he can feel the arrows in his torso, his achingly heavy, drenched clothing dragging at him.

He sees shadows and darkness and can smell – it’s sweet, like flowers and musk and the air on the first day of a chill. He opens his eyes –

Pym sucks in air.

“I can feel her.”

The healer girl doesn’t have to ask whom. She merely gathers her satchel and threads her fingers into his, quelling the shaking, and they stand together, his sword catching the last remaining light, the steel singing to him.

“Let’s go and tell Arthur.”

He tilts his head back and smells the night air again – it’s the same as the dress had been at the abbey, the same it had been in Dewdenn on that first day, the same it had been in Uther’s camp.

The ground shudders, and he and Pym run, the monk scooping to pick her up as they get closer to their tents, the short woman not fast enough for his taste. His fear amps when she doesn’t complain.

*

A hundred fae surround him as he tells Arthur and the Spear and the rest of the council what he felt. Arthur is vibrating with the desire to leave. NOW. Guinevere is speaking to him, her low voice coming in waves at Lancelot, who is now seated with Percival and Pym as he waits for the council to send him out again. Why is he waiting?

Is this the same day as the one he’d spent in the pool?

He can’t tell anymore.

“…elot?”

He turns his head smoothly and looks at the boy. “You ready?”

He stands. Night is there fully, and torches sputter as he finds his horse, and mounts, Percival scrambling up behind him. He grabs the boy’s arm to tug him off, but the boy is a lot stronger than he looks, and after a moment of minute struggle, Lancelot gives up, and

_Pym is watching them as they ride out_

_And he catches the scent and feel almost immediately_

_The second they’re past the fae, their faces full of hope and some anger_

He clucks at the horse as Arthur and the Spear fall in behind him, giving him and the boy rein, and they take it, Lancelot’s headache a vice that Brother Salt would have been proud of. Had Lancelot not killed him.

He squeezes the leather straps of the bridle and speeds up – the sound of the young queen's fury filling his already crowded brain, the council close at his heels, his sword heavy and bouncing at his side.

He’d asked for a sign. Any sign. Any answer from God as to what he would do now, what he was supposed to do now. And though he knows that that deity doesn’t answer him, maybe never did –

The trees flash by, and he can hear the whispering and groaning echoing around them, in his head and heart and the boy grips his arm more tightly as they ride.

~

**Author's Note:**

> I love lonnnngggggggg inner dialog and I love self-flagilation, and I love this character a lot. I am attempting to show more and more personal growth with his thoughts, but that might take a while. I have a feeling Nimue might show up too sooner rather than later. ;)
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments/kudos and time you've all taken to read these pieces! Born in the dawn...


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